I wrote a poem.

I haven't written one since I started dating Edwin, which is more than a year. Therefore, the poem is about trying to write poetry and not being able to, and the process of self-doubt, etc.


I am going to write a poem.
Idon'thavethewisdomforitIdon't
thinkit'sgoingtobeanygoodandwhoamI
tobewritingthisanywaywhoamIanyway,
the words clunk at my feet.
Where is the wind to carry them
heartwards where they might be lodged
like guests or bent nails in a fencepost
to mark that I have made a difference like
the sunset, for now the sky is velvet
where it was fire and there is no going back?

I am a carbon-based organism, nucleotides dancing.
I am a soul blown through with Trinity.
I am a daughter, sister, wife, warming
house, husband, and children someday. I am
a teacher to open ears and tongues. I am a member
of this glorious squalor of a species that
in less than half a century birthed and killed
its Creator. I am, and I have the right to write a poem.

Yes, I have the right, as I stretch out my fist
to seize it like a Berkeley protester. Shall I
clasp it to my chest and say "Mine, mine, no
one shall take it from me!" as they do? I become
a shallow ditch in Palestine, where many years
ago a frightened man buried his gift. Take the earth
of my hole, mold it into a jar of clay that I might not
fester but break, spilling sweet myrrh at your feet.